Now Arador is slain, Chieftain less than twenty years. We arrived in time to fell the troll, too late to prevent his death.

How we weary of bearing bitter tidings!

Elladan, at Arathorn and Gilraen's home

"We raised a cairn over your father's grave in the Coldfells."

I leave much unsaid: Arador's corpse lies hidden among brambles near a rock-fall — the earth too hard to dig; the stones are heaped high enough to hinder scavenging animals, but not to draw attention from passing Orcs... except by smell.

No need to further disquiet Gilraen, great with child.

Grimly, Arathorn nods understanding.

Long has he captained the Rangers; he has borne witness that vigilance no longer forestalls sudden slaughter by the gathering forces of Darkness.

Now Chieftain, he well knows the sacrifices his people make in the Wild.

Gilraen, beside Arathorn

Elrond's sons are welcomed as brothers-in-arms by Rangers, but not so by wives. Too often are they harbingers of widowhood.

This time, 'tis not Arathorn lying slain, but his father. I stand beside my husband in support.